


A Life's Opportunity Misused

by blueink3



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, John needs to deal with some things, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock is a Saint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-03 21:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5308385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused." - Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol</p><p>Or, that night John Watson drank too much holiday ale and woke up to a stranger flying through his bedroom window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life's Opportunity Misused

“Sherlock! For Christ’s sake!”

John slams the oven door shut and braces his hands on the top of the hob, breathing evenly and deeply, trying to ignore the fact that a human head is currently sitting in the flat’s only roaster. The roaster that is due to hold their Christmas goose the following evening because John, despite his enormous misgivings, offered to host the holiday meal for Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and (God help him) Harry. 

“Problem?” Sherlock asks from the sitting room and John merely shakes his head as his hands clench into fists on top of the stainless steel.

“We’ve talked about this,” he murmurs as he turns, but Sherlock merely picks a string from his dressing gown, nonplussed.

“Have we?”

“ _Yes_ , Sherlock," John grits. "On multiple occasions.”

“I thought you didn’t mind my experiments,” he replies, tone just this shy of accusing. 

“Except when they come into direct contact with our _food,”_ John yells, normally mindful of Mrs. Hudson, but his rage is rapidly ploughing full steam ahead.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow ever so briefly, before he shrugs, air of indifference firmly back in place. “Mm, must’ve deleted it.”

“Must have  _deleted_ it? Are you actually _trying_ to piss me off?" 

Sherlock's lips quirk in that delightfully evil way they do before he eviscerates a suspect. "Well you make it so _easy_ after all." 

John's jaw drops, but he can't even form an adequate reply. His throat works because he's just so exhausted, so goddamn _drained_ ,but no words come. "No,” he whispers as he shakes his head and grabs his coat off the hook. “I’m not doing this.”

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asks as he sits up, calm façade almost slipping.

“Out,” John snaps, fury sparking once more.

“But it’s Christmas Eve.” 

“Oh like you _care_.” It comes out vicious and accusing, in a biting tone that’s thoroughly unnecessary, yet cathartic in its spite.

Sherlock’s face goes slack as if he’s been slapped. John feels a sharp pang of regret, but he turns and stomps down the stairs before he can second-guess his choice of action.

He’s been ignoring a lot of second-guessing these days.

The front door slams and John turns his collar up against the wind, wishing he had thought to snag his scarf from the front hall. The night is black, but the clouds he can see are low and gray, reflecting the light of the city’s glow. The weather had said snow and it looks like, for once, the forecasters weren’t that far off.

Cursing his choice of footwear, he heads in the direction of the nearest pub, hoping to hole up for a few hours and forget the fact that it’s Christmas. The fairy lights glowing in the windows keep his feet going for a bit longer, but when he finally realizes that attempting to outrun the biggest holiday of the year will get him nowhere warm quickly, he ducks into nearest watering hole and slumps on a stool at the bar.

A pint that he vaguely remembers ordering appears in front of him a moment later and he watches as the foam calms, leaving a sharp line of white atop the black lager below. He takes a sip and places the glass back on top of the coaster, staring at the grooves in the wood if only to avoid glancing at his fellow pathetic barflies. It’s a sorry lot. Not surprising, really, for Christmas Eve.

John rolls his shoulders and feels the tension of the evening leave. Or leave as much as it ever does. It’s been one year since Appledore and the intervening months had been… hard.

Mary was dead. His child along with her.

And the events that led to the loss of his wife and daughter slowly tore at him, until the final crushing blow gutted him completely. Though Mary had been a ghost to him for quite some time by then, the loss of his daughter punched a hole into his life that not even the great Sherlock Holmes could fill. And every time thoughts of Sherlock drifted toward no man’s land – that dangerous territory that makes something warm and inexplicable bloom in his chest – John felt like he was betraying something. The Mary he originally met, the baby, his grief. So the only solution was to shut it down altogether, choking it until it withered and died.

And, as any psychologist could have predicted, it turned John cold and it turned John mean. His already short fuse was attached to a powder keg these days and Sherlock always seemed to know exactly which match to strike, as if winding him up or something. John once accused him of treating him as an experiment and Sherlock had merely turned on his heel, disappeared to the bedroom, and quietly shut the door. John almost wishes he had slammed it. It would have been more satisfying. And by “satisfying,” he means it would have allayed his guilt a bit.

And then there was tonight, one incident in a long string of growing dust ups. It was just a head in a roaster. To be perfectly honest, Sherlock’s done far worse. And yet John had lost it. Stomping down the stairs like the child he sometimes is, attempting to cool off in the bitter winter wind. Attempting to forget with the help of a 7% alcohol content. He tells himself it’s not as bad as scotch, but then again, he puts away more pints than fingers of the amber liquid, so it’s six of one, half dozen of another really.

Which is why he stumbles home over two hours later, a bit sad, a lot drunk, but no longer angry. And the sober part of the brain, small though it may be, points out that there are better coping mechanisms to foster than drinking oneself into oblivion. After all, it didn’t seem to go all that well for Harry.

It takes three tries to get his key in the lock and another five minutes of leaning against the wall before he’s able to drag himself up the seventeen steps. He tumbles into the flat, attempting to be quiet, but his noise gauge is decidedly faulty at the moment.

The first thing he registers is that the flat is spotless. He had been intending to tidy up so they didn't terrify the guests the following evening, but his conniption had taken precedence. As they so often do these days. Sherlock must have taken on the task himself and not only is the head gone, but everything (and John means _everything_ ), has been polished and dusted, right down to the tiny elephant statue on the table in the corner.

One thing that is not here, though, is the man himself and John goes into the kitchen and peers down the hall to find Sherlock’s door firmly shut, despite the fact that it’s barely midnight and going to bed at two is considered “early” in Sherlock’s book.

If John’s ears strain hard enough, he’s convinced he can hear him puttering around. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol. Shaking his head (and then swaying), he heads towards the bottom of the stairs leading up to his room, pausing on the bottom and wishing more than anything that he had the courage to walk the 20 paces or so to Sherlock’s door and apologize. He owes him  _so_ many apologies. 

He’s fought wars, he’s nearly died, he’s buried loves. Yet 20 paces is just a stretch too far.

He sighs, accepting his cowardice, and climbs the stairs to his room with no amount of grace, barely toeing off his shoes before face-planting on the bed. The pillow is soft and inviting, and he’s asleep before he even notices the envelope on the side table, bearing his name written in Sherlock’s familiar scrawl.

xxxxxx

The downstairs clock strikes one when it happens. Not that John is awake for the beginning.

The wind picks up and the loose gutter bangs against the siding as snow falls in fat flakes, hammering against the glass in a blinding sea of white. The windows bang open and John yells an expletive as he sits up, hand already reaching for the gun he no longer keeps beneath his pillow. His heart is pounding and his adrenaline is overriding the beginnings of his hangover as he watches the snow drift past the billowing curtains with a wide, yet bleary gaze.

He closes his eyes as another gust rustles the sheets and when he opens them, there’s a stranger standing at the foot of his bed. He’s dressed oddly: waistcoat, pocket watch, bowler hat. And that’s when John gets a good look at the man’s face –

A man who looks just like him, but… not.

Not-Him smiles, the waxed ends of his bushy moustache quirking imperceptibly.

“Hello, John. Happy Christmas.”


End file.
